The PCHA music question at hand: You can only listen to music from one artist for the rest of your life, but it can only be music that hasn’t been released yet. Anything this artist will appear on in the future counts, though — guest appearances, new bands in which they start, etc. Nothing from the back catalog is allowed.

So a few thoughts before we get into it:

1) You want someone you have faith will be around for a good long while, so artists of a certain age and bands who could conceivably break up soon are bad ideas.

2) Solo artists are safer than bands, because again — bands break up. You don’t want to bet your remaining life’s entertainment on Japandroids, only to see them split before ever releasing another album.

3) Prolific is ideal. Life is gonna get pretty boring with only one artist to listen to, so the more new music, the better. Ryan Adams>Stone Roses, in other words.

4) Diverse and eclectic get bonus points. I’d rather hear new sounds every couple years than the same old thing (however good) repeated album after album. Let’s call this the Ramones Corollary.

Those are the first lines of Superchunk’s “Me & You & Jackie Mittoo,” which Mac McCaughan performed in an excellent solo set at Cheer Up Charlie’s last week, and that’s I question I ask myself a lot at South by Southwest: what is it worth?

Is it worth the crowds, the lines, the traffic, the douchebags, the mud, the aching feet, the hangovers, the waiting around, the sound problems, more douchebags, the fatigue, the shitty bands playing between the good ones, and the complete withdrawal of any semblance of a normal life for a week? Still? Even approaching 40?

Let’s find out together, because here we are again. My fourth trip to SXSW, and my first one holding a music badge (possibly making me one of those aforementioned douchebags),has come and gone. Take a seat while I pull out my slide projector and show you motherfuckers some vacation photos. Breathe it in. Enjoy it. Just as “Me & You & Jackie Mittoo” is ultimately a love song to music, so is my annual sojourn to Austin my chance to re-establish how much I love music.

This year’s crew: me, some family, some lawyers, some social workers. And some dude with a giant glowstick that wanted to hang out with us for an entire Run the Jewels show. And some girl who handed me a full vodka and ginger ale at a show, then spent about ten minutes convincing me it wasn’t roofied (I wasn’t worried). And some dude who actually tried to network with me at a show by asking legitimate questions about my work. Oh, very young — though your dreams may toss and turn you now/They will vanish away like your daddy’s best jeans.

Bischoff was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by Ted Turner, Time Warner, the Undertaker, and all WCW loyalists. McMahon signed it: and McMahon’s name was good for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Bischoff was as dead as a door-nail.

McMahon knew he was dead; they had been rivals for I don’t know how many years until McMahon prevailed, and immediately erased Bischoff’s name from all the legal records and history books.

There he sat on his office, the morning of Wrestlemania 31: McMahon! A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, did odd things to his hair, enlarged his testicles, stiffened his gait.

On this particular morning, McMahon sat alone in his office in Levi’s Stadium (for McMahon had his workers build him an exact replica of his office in every arena where the company visited), counting stacks of coin and keeping a close eye on the running total of WWE Network subscribers.

Like this:

The Dilemma: Is this the year I officially turned into Rolling Stone? Am I David Fricke now? Because most of the music I really liked this year was from established acts. A couple legit old-timers, yes, but also indie/alternative bands with multiple albums under their belt that appeared to be on the downswing. In addition to those listed below, I enjoyed albums from the Old 97s, Jenny Lewis, The Both (Ted Leo and Aimee Mann), Ryan Adams, and others.

And this year, I think we all know the World Series means just a little bit more.

Because this was the last year that Derek Jeter graced a baseball field, and all that happens in his wake this post-season will happen under a large shadow in the shape of the number 2.

Both the Royals and the Giants have obviously dedicated their seasons to the Captain, and are playing to earn his undying respect. Sorry: re2pect. Therefore, we can safely assume that whoever wins the Series will do so by playing the most Jeterian game possible under the circumstances, and reinventing themselves in Jeter’s image.

So let’s this break this down so we can make a scientific prediction: who will win the 2014 World Series?